


way down, hwadestown (way down under the ground)

by sangiebyheart



Series: love in its many forms. [3]
Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hadestown Fusion, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Angst, Hopeful Ending, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Love at First Sight, M/M, Please Don't Hate Me, READ NOTES
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:35:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25598164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangiebyheart/pseuds/sangiebyheart
Summary: Ask those you call Gods, those you praise Goddesses, if they have a favorite story to tell - ask them just which tragedy has been a song in the back of their minds for the longest time, a tune to hum day in, day out, until they themselves have gotten sick of hearing it.Their answers will vary, some speaking of a reckless fool, of the son of a muse whose doubts won over his heart’s desire, others will speak of a shallow young man trading in the harshness of the world above for the shrill electric sounds below. Others will attempt to rewind time, turn it back, back, back until they stumble upon the very beginnings of the story, of the true tragedy of love lost to hatred, to indifference, to a city of steel and railroad tracks.And yet, they shall answer in unison, in spite of their differences in origin.Or, a retelling of Hadestown, the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, and Hades and Persephone.
Relationships: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung, Kang Yeosang/Park Seonghwa
Series: love in its many forms. [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015008
Comments: 14
Kudos: 32





	way down, hwadestown (way down under the ground)

**Author's Note:**

> sigh  
> okay yes it's another musical rewrite  
> i can't stop myself okay i started writing this like three days before my math exam and couldn't stop, so sue me. obviously some phrases are taken from the musical, because it is very much inspired by it, so . im sorry for being unoriginal, but we can't help it, can we?
> 
> trigger warnings:  
> \- i will mention blood, cruelty, generally just not overall pleasant language concerning the body, but it will only be minor. i will not dwell on anything, nor go into gorey details.  
> \- themes of death  
> \- allusions to alcohol and drug use  
> \- if you wish for me to tag anything as a precaution, don't be shy to tell me in my cc or in a comment or on twitter. i don't mind, if it is generally bothering you and you think other people should know about it beforehand.
> 
> now.  
> enjoy.  
> as much as you can.

Life, as history, is a cycle.

Life, as history, is a steady come and go, a repetition of one soul’s influences over another and another and another, a ceaseless push and pull until it gives up and starts anew.

Tragedies create themselves in the midst of it, again and again, and as history, they too stay the very same through decades and centuries, through eons even the highest of divinities are too young to have witnessed.

Ask them, though.

Ask those you call Gods, those you praise Goddesses, if they have a favorite story to tell - ask them just which tragedy has been a song in the back of their minds for the longest time, a tune to hum day in, day out, until they themselves have gotten sick of hearing it.

Their answers will vary, some speaking of a reckless fool, of the son of a muse whose doubts won over his heart’s desire, others will speak of a shallow young man trading in the harshness of the world above for the shrill electric sounds below. Others will attempt to rewind time, turn it back, back, back until they stumble upon the very beginnings of the story, of the true tragedy of love lost to hatred, to indifference, to a city of steel and railroad tracks.

And yet, they shall answer in unison, in spite of their differences in origin.

There is one soul, so old and wise and ever-present to have known it all, to have been there to witness what many of the mightiest only carelessly whisper about.

His name is Hongjoong.

Hongjoong is a messenger; he brings and delivers, as much as he sells and offers legends to Gods who have grown restless and bored with their occupation and immortal lives. He goes around and around in search for more, in search for stories to tell and messages to carry upon his shoulders.

And Hongjoong knows the tragedy by heart, sings his own woeful songs as he flies to the sky and beyond, as he claws his way through the underground and further still, and he finds remnants on the way, another repetition he does not dare whisper to the Gods.

He remembers all too keenly. He is reminded all too often.

The pain he bears however - watching, seeing, endlessly, as though it is his own divine punishment for having interfered, or not having interfered enough - is so, so small, compared to those who have endured the very suffering about which the Gods merely sigh in annoyance.

It is an old song, by now. An old tale. A tragedy.

And yet, Hongjoong will tell it again and again, to anyone who is willing to listen - for it might turn out for the better this time, perhaps, if he does; for he might be able to change fate for those who lost their very lives to it.

And in contrast to the Gods claiming to have knowledge on how it truly, honestly began - Hongjoong does know what happened with that reckless fool and that shallow young man - with the love they shared, so pure and fresh and hopeful, in spite of dreams barely holding together the world in which they lived, nightmares in their place every six months, tearing at them, scratching their bare skin until the scars remain well into the summery warmth that birthed the end of their loneliness.

Their names are San and Wooyoung - they may no longer live to hear Hongjoong tell the story, but he keeps them alive, breathing, happy if only for the minutes and seconds it takes to convey their story, though Hongjoong will savor every second as though it is precious, weighted gold on his tongue and sparkles in the air he breathes.

San is the son of a muse, the son of a lesser God, no longer granted immortality, though he seeks to leave his mark in the world regardless - Hongjoong has taken him underneath his wing, has given him his first lyre to tinker around with, and although he could not have known it then, Hongjoong has surely given his own musical inclinations to an eager, budding songwriter, too, bearing a responsibility not only as a stand-in father, but a generous music teacher, as well.

And thus, before - before this musical prodigy meets the love of his very life - he composes, he writes his songs, goes around destruction and decay with a playful tune, fingers dancing above strings of a lyre that grows with him, and he imagines a world in his songs, close by and real and tangible, not just a dream.

Wooyoung is the son of nobodies, the son of worthless people who have given nothing to their child but the coldness and bitterness of souls let down by the Gods. They have given him cynicism - Wooyoung calls it realism, Hongjoong calls it absurd - and restlessness, the urge to travel from one place to another, to never stay, to never look back, to not allow anything close, nor anyone even closer. His heart is his only possession, his only treasure beneath ragged, thin clothes that will be useless against the harsh reality of winter’s nightmares.

Three voices, invisible to the mundane’s eyes for their divine origin, are his sole companions on his endless tracks through unknown terrain and strange surroundings that change and change and change beyond his control, and they sing a song of his own tragedy, of his solitude - Hongjoong also remembers their names, remembers how they latch onto an unfortunate soul like leeches, sucking the life out of him with every step Wooyoung takes to make attempts at freedom. He has never known it, not with them, looming over him, three added shadows on his solitary existence.

That is, until one day.

A fateful evening, to both of these fortunate lonesome figures - for there are other players in this game of a tragedy adding their pieces to the chest board, two Gods Hongjoong has been familiar with for many mortal lives over, two Gods he has visited down below and up above, depending on the time of year.

Their names are, and always will be, until eternity stretches itself thin, Yeosang and Seonghwa. The kings of the underworld - one not quite as devoted as the other, as arrangements have been made between a powerful God under divine limitations and a mother of infinite life, to keep him away from a cold, dark world, and sheltered from his husband for six months every single year. A reduction of a life’s sentence of dread in the underworld, spent on the surface of a planet, dying without its life’s blood. A punishment to the one and a relief to the other, though even a God’s feelings do change drastically over the endless abundance of time.

For Yeosang, son of the good, caring mother of nature and agriculture, is the key to their seasons, to their cycles of seed and sickle, and the lives of their people, for the lack of autumn and spring, the blissful heat of summer and biting cold of winter.

Once upon a time, Yeosang married for love, married an exchange of his beloved gardens and forests and rivers for the crypts and caves and chambers of darkness in the underworld, married the ruler and king Seonghwa himself, much to his mother’s unyielding dismay.

Hongjoong will always sigh when he tells of these two. Yeosang should have known his mother would never accept the very impersonation of death, not when Yeosang himself was so full of life, and you simply do not tempt the Goddess of everything which breathes by whisking her only child away, albeit in the name of true, mutual love.

Their love is no longer existent, anyhow; not in this story. Six months, once a time of yearning for his dearest love, are now the balm to a soul of fatigue, a chance to indulge in all the many pleasures Yeosang’s presence brings with the beginning of summer. And with him, the people rejoice, celebrate his return in abundance so much so that the winter is left with scrapes and the faint ghosts of hot air.

It is a lesson they do not learn, and thus, hope is running thin when Yeosang must return to his gilded cage.

And yet, the first days of Yeosang’s gifts are spent in carelessness, between one drink and another one, far into the night so that even the moon receives the pleasure and privilege of witnessing the angel of the underworld dance through the meadows.

San is familiar with him, with Yeosang, has heard of his many complaints about his monster of a husband in person, a man cold and dead in his heart, eyes of steel that hold no more love for someone who once enchanted him. He thinks of them and he sings a song of them, of a love gone so horribly wrong, and he wishes for a fate better than the Gods’ own.

And as he entertains the crowd with his lyre and voice, distracts them for only so long, San spots a man by the sidelines, a man who attempts to sneak his way through the dancers unnoticed, a man so beautiful he could be a God himself. He is stunning enough, Hongjoong remembers, and he catches San’s eyes far too easily.

His song is not finished, yet San is quick to approach him - undeterred by Hongjoong’s advice not to come on too strong - and he calls out him. _Come home with me_.

The man stops in his pursuits to steal himself away, takes his time to inspect the strange man and his inappropriate request. _Who are you_ , he asks, still, curiosity reigning over confusion.

_The man who is going to marry you. My name is San._

How much of a fool he is, that San, Hongjoong never fails to exaggerate in his tellings.

 _You are a fool_ , the man, the God, the lost soul amidst the dancers, responds, and he laughs at him in good nature. _My name is Wooyoung._

And never once before has San heard a name so precious, so divinely adorned, befitting to a man who stands the image before him. He is called a flatterer for it, for not covering his mouth as he utters praises full of awe, though he does not care, for Wooyoung’s smile is worth all the gemstones in the world, as rare as they are - San quickly gets the sense that the genuine smile is a rarity in itself.

There is a gentle back and forth between them, and then, San asks Wooyoung to dance and they do, they dance underneath the fairy lights, underneath the blessings of a God who brought them fruit and drink and the ease of summer heat. And San begins to sing, entrances Wooyoung with a song yet unfinished, a song to bring the world back into tune, autumn and spring back into existence.

Wooyoung does not believe such a thing possible until San starts his melody, and the trees commence their call for an early bloom, flowers raise their heads to listen, birds wake from their nightly slumber in excitement.

Astonishment manifests in the air, it’s greatest source an uninspired young man who used to travel from town to town in search of food and shelter. This very evening, allowing himself to fall into the arms of a singer, he decides that perhaps, this time, he shall consider to remain a while.

For the singer’s still a son of a God, however unimportant, and although his gift does not lie in immortality, his voice, his lyre, his music carries all of the divine power which has been granted to him. And it is enough, enough to restore order, enough to make their world a better place, even if just for a little moment.

And just as the songwriter has found himself a new muse, the traveler has found his faith, his hope, and their summer has left the confines of solitude, entering the undiscovered togetherness between two poor, unfortunate souls.

San shows Wooyoung what it means to be loved so deeply, the flowers start to hum as he lays him down in the fields, and he falls, falls and falls so deep yet he lands so soft that Wooyoung forgets the torments of his mind, and the Fates - the three voices, do you remember them? - have nothing to whisper into his ears. Not much can be strong enough to combat a lover’s sweetness, when all Wooyoung hears is the honey and the nectar pouring out of a singer’s lips.

Wooyoung shows San what it means to take care of yourself, first and foremost, to maintain in a world that wishes you gone, and San’s attention is held captive at the way Wooyoung is making sure he eats and sleeps and does not stare at his lyre all day, no matter how much of a frustrating grip he has on it.

And just so, so naturally, they fall into their own kind of tune, their own kind of song San could write lengths about, and so he does. Wooyoung sings along more often, a beautiful smile returning and making his cheeks hurt from all their joy, for a lonely child has never gotten used to so much laughter and boundless happiness with another person, that now, it is entirely too overwhelming.

Yet they fall into step beside one another, learning to care, learning to listen, and soon their love is reminiscent of those of a pair of Gods, unconditional and meant for eternity, and San hopes their bond is strong enough to hold even through the inevitability of death.

However.

Hongjoong does not like to utter this word.

However, times are hard, getting harder all the time, and soon enough, San is getting lost in his song, searching for his lyrics in the depths of the night, moonlight leading him to foreign places and away from his lover’s hold. Wooyoung is alone again, more often than not, when he wakes, and he watches clouds roll over blue skies and worries for his love. Winter is drawing near, there is a storm coming on, the wind picks up and shivers wander down Wooyoung’s spine as a songwriter wanders the earth.

Wooyoung holds his faith close to his heart, a shared treasure now that he has met San, and the only thing keeping him warm as six months of heat turn to cold days and even colder nights.

On the rare occasions that San is home, Wooyoung insists they stock up on food before the winter breaks in full, but San does not hear him, does not feel the icy pricks of the wind underneath his skin, nor the stiff and stark white color of his fingers as they stretch over his lyre’s strings.

He is gone again so soon, and Wooyoung worries once again. For only a fool would ignore the dangers of a nightmare - love can only protect you so much, before it deceives you and creates an illusion of peace that will tear you to shreds if you are not careful.

Doubts are Wooyoung’s companions again, the Fates arriving with the biting draught sneaking through the broken window pane. They are tall, taller than Wooyoung, and louder, louder than he ever could be, which is what scares him the most when San is not there to help him fend off unwanted visitors.

And thus, he accepts them, welcomes them back into his life as soon as winter rolls around, and with it, the arrival of a king on a train, on railroad tracks of rusty steel only ever in use every six months. To collect and to return, to take and to give.

This time, Yeosang is not prepared to be taken when the train whistles and calls.

A man - dressed in a suit, always, the finest creation - steps out of the car, casting a spell over unlucky watchers, as he approaches his husband with an expression of fondness and deviousness alike - the king of the underworld has a reputation to maintain, and thus he glowers at everyone who dares to lock eyes with him. Braver souls keep their head high, high up, even in the face of death staring right back at them, and Seonghwa makes sure to remember them in their afterlife - their souls always the most fun and intricate in his collections.

 _You are early, husband,_ is the greeting he receives, Yeosang far beyond hiding his contempt and his annoyance. So used to this, Seonghwa takes his husband’s gentle, delicate hand into his palm, bows and plants a full kiss on its back, and speaks in a deep voice the world up above shall never forget, _I missed you._

This is quite enough of a show, Yeosang thinks every single year, as he tears his hand away and stalks past the man and into the train car, never looking back to a dejected man and his loathsome glare.

The unhappy occasion is watched by a hungry young man, one of the unfortunate ones to cross eyes with Seonghwa and worse - one of those who have caught his eye.

You see, Seonghwa does not come to the surface once every six months just to collect his lovely, beautiful, devoted God of a husband - for Hwadestown is a place of constant progress, Seonghwa a man with a silver whistle and a golden scale. He trades lives for a living and offers an eye for an eye, a soul for a soul, and accumulates himself workers for all of eternity. They are not dead, yet they are not alive - in Hwadestown, they are simply his and his alone, his workers with bowed heads and no backbone to speak of, compliant and easily bend to his will. There is food on the table and money to spend in return, though the prize to be paid is a permanent residence in a city that never sees the light of the sun.

Desperation fuels most to come to the electric city, to work for Seonghwa in his factories, the future of yet another winter spent starving and freezing too much to bear. It is the reflection in a person’s eyes which gives them away even before their desire is uttered in a tentative wish, and on this chilling day, a target is set onto Wooyoung’s back even as he turns from Seonghwa’s inquisitive gaze.

Before Wooyoung can know it, Seonghwa approaches him, smelling the frustration on him like one of his hellhounds and nearly drooling with appetite for another innocent soul he can grab and trap beneath his fingertips.

_Hey, little songbird. Give me a song._

Seonghwa is a busy man, foreman of his factory, husband to his beloved, collector and keeper of the dead, he cannot go hunting as much as he wishes to. Though his methods of seduction are old of nature, they have withstood the test of time, and he offers Wooyoung the gift and the prospect of a warm bed, of a warm meal every day, much more than his lover cares to give.

And Wooyoung calls for him, with all his might; attempts to resist the alluring proposition of this strange, strange man he has heard San sing about so often, humming warnings woven together with the tragedies of his victims. But all Wooyoung feels is the emptiness of his belly, the regret in his blood as it boils in spite of the cool, crisp air surrounding him.

A ticket and a bluff is all that is left, at the end of the day.

Hongjoong watches, remembers the struggle on his face and the Fates having their fair share of it, and hears the poor man speak.

_San, my love, my heart is yours. Always was, and shall be._

Though, at the end of the day, no song can shelter him, no song can feed him, and his choice. His choice is not easy, not while his gut growls louder than the strums of a lyre.

Now, go ahead, be enraged. Be angry, full of contempt against a poor, poor boy, who has known comfort for six wonderful months, only for it to be stripped off him as soon as snowflakes cover the earth in a deafening white. He may fall softly too, though he has no one to lay him down oh-so-gently, for a songwriter is striving after notes and words that Wooyoung has no hopes of giving him.

For Wooyoung, after all, is not a God to sing a song about, a mere mortal only, and no melody of his could save their world from ever-present misery.

Now, go ahead, be irritated. Be spiteful, resent his decision to leave the arms of a lover for a life of work and darkness.

But Hongjoong insists upon a question in need of an answer, a simple one; would you have not done the same? Walking in shoes that have gathered holes, walking in a skin that crawls with goosebumps and the frailness of a body, hungry, slouching already.

And damn all the Gods, Wooyoung calls and calls his name, endlessly, a chorus to echo around the forests, to sing over the meadows where the two of them shared their most intimate moments together, but the snow is thick and ice is slippery, so the sound of his name being yelled in desperation does not arrive at a singing lover’s ears and thus, Wooyoung remains alone.

As it has always been. As it always shall be.

Wooyoung does not look back; it is enough that the tears freeze over as they leave his eyes, and no one but Hongjoong is there witness them. Droplet after droplet reaches the solid, dead ground, and just like the crops that find their end in this unbearable weather, Wooyoung, too, has no chance to return alive.

And yet, one must not forget the other half of his soul, for it suffers a blow to the heart as the train departs from the station, not to take the trip back for another six months, and most, most certainly without his love. Even as he is miles and miles away, dread and sorrow fills him up, and he suddenly realizes the temperatures dropping and dropping and dropping until they make his knees buckle under the weight of his lyre, and he drops to the ground, the fabric of his pants wet and cool as he wonders what might have gone wrong from the one minute to the other.

His breath is ragged as he runs through the night, until he finds his house but not his home, nor the feeling of warmth and love he has come to be so attached to. Forgotten is the song in the back of his head, urgency taking him by the neck and dragging him away, and he searches for the tune he has neglected for too long until it had vanished from existence.

Hongjoong is a messenger, as one might remember, and San finds him with the sad, sad reality on the tip of his tongue. And although San already knows there is but one place Wooyoung could have gone, he asks, over and over again, _where is he? How can I find him? Why did he go?_

Hongjoong must ask, for San’s disinterest, his misguidance, it has all led to the abominable future of another, and _why would you wanna know?_

He believes, he has faith; he has known this bright boy, this frivolous fool since he was a tiny terror around the instruments of his mother, and he knows that his intentions are good, yet his attentions so, so easily diverted - and so it happens, even with the love of his life.

Hongjoong regrets, having told him. Hongjoong regrets, not having done more. But he tells San, he tells him everything from the longing gaze of a defeated lover, and the predator who took advantage of him.

_He has gone down below. He called your name before he went, but I guess you were not listening._

Smart as he is, perceptive yet unseeing when notes cloud his vision, San realizes the death sentence spoken upon his dearest, and he is on his feet in an instant. _How can I get him back?_

Hongjoong can never forget the light in San’s eyes, the fire to rival the uncontrollable flames of Seonghwa’s den, speaking of a determination only a lovesick idiot could muster up. Uncaring of the dangers of the underworld, San would follow his love to the end of time, to the end of earth, no obstacle great enough for him to overcome with his boldness.

The messenger of the Gods admits his pity. Hongjoong admits a secret.

_There is another way, down to Hwadestown._

_Do not tell, do not tell it to anyone_ , for no one but the Gods of the underworld and their trusted train conductor must know of the path that leads to a city of iron, of smoke and despair, leads you to walls built out of stone and coughs of blood. But Hongjoong whispers, instruction after instruction on how to steal yourself through the darkness and into the underground, away from the dogs howling at your feet, no maps to guide you, only your soul weakening with every step - and that is how you know that you are close, as the life will be sucked out of you along the way, until you are nothing but skin and bones, flesh walking lifelessly.

Hongjoong would not give the information away to just anyone - for only a half God such as San could even stand a chance of survival without the rejuvenating drops of sunlight, even so sparingly given as they are in winter’s time.

Souls shall never make it out of Hwadestown. The sun is a stranger to them soon enough, and neither strength nor willpower are words of their vocabulary anymore. San must act quick, or he will lose his love to the emotionless undead roaming the city of the underground.

Thus, San treads forward with courage, and he does not look back, as he has a goal, as he has a reason to act quick. His song must wait, having been the priority for far, far too long. Too preoccupied has he been with the reawakening of autumn and spring, that he failed to notice the icicles falling onto his lover’s back, infusing him with their treacherous poison and their ice replacing the blood running through his veins, merciless on his mortal soul.

 _Wait for me_ , San sings, _I am coming with you_. For Wooyoung shall not suffer by himself any longer than he has to, now that San is on his way to get him back. Out of the grips of a tyrant, clean-cut in his sharp and neat suits, holding diamonds in his hands as though they are nothing to him, and yet, everything to those that mined them. He holds them above their heads with a smirk so satisfied, its grotesque nature has driven his very husband away and into the arms of liquid distractions and solid hallucinations, just so he can bear to even stay beneath dirt and in his presence for six months at a time.

And as San walks, walks, walks, the underworld comes alive for but a moment with the arrival of its foreign king, for he brings what the city does not offer. Yeosang is not alone in his desire to blend out the misery surrounding him, in his wish for the beauties of color which spring brings but not to him, not while he is not there to watch and observe and inspect, and thus, workers flock around him with coin Yeosang has no need of. His celebrations in the world down below are of no matter to him, inebriated as he is, though they mean tenfold to those who have nothing to look forward to but Yeosang’s return, and he shall do what he can to alleviate their constant troubles.

Some are lost in Hwadestown, for they did not have any other choice but to follow the calls of promises, when their own lives up above held none of them. Yeosang, however, is not lost, though he wishes he were. Yeosang is not lost, he is damned for eternity.

And he pities those his husband brings with him when he goes to collect him. He pities the fresh meat, newcomers with a light in their eyes that is yet fighting not to die out - and every single time, Yeosang hopes that they might not end up with similar fates as all the other undead around him. And every single time, Yeosang fights against inevitability but only flails his arms in his helplessness, and the spark dims and dims until it extinguishes, making Yeosang swear to never meet anyone’s eyes ever again.

Yet, he does.

He does, when a young man steps out of his husband’s office, papers in hand, signature placed at the bottom of the pages, and Yeosang recognizes him as the songwriter’s muse, the songwriter’s lover, and his pity grows heavy in his stomach so much so that he takes another drink to drown it. This time, he does not have the heart to watch an already broken man die beneath his husband’s demand to build his wall higher and higher still, so he turns his gaze away, if only to ease the guilt just a little bit.

Hongjoong will remind you, to never judge a God who has been dying on the inside, who averts his attentions for he is not strong enough to go against someone so cruel all alone; he does not possess the power of other promises, so he does not give them. He gives distractions, though he does not give solutions.

And as the days go by, as they bring the darkness of nighttime no matter how much Wooyoung begs them not to, the workers lift stones high and higher up, and they ignore the pleas of their newest addition, the cries of someone wailing for the softness of flowers, for the tickle of summer’s sunlight on your skin. They ignore him, for he is not the first to scream of his yearnings, to shout of his regret, and to them, it is but an echo, more and more lifeless with every passing second. There is no use dwelling on the desperation, for they all have at one point and where has it gotten them? Stones are being stemmed either way, and their foreman is strict and unforgiving, always but a reminder away that this - this fate, this eternal, is their choice.

They have signed the papers.

Wooyoung’s silent tears replace his cries for help soon enough. His head is held high still, for he is full of spite and full of anger, as much as he knows them to be useless acts of defiance, even now. Dignity is all he has left of himself, he shall not let it be stripped of him. He shall hold onto it tight and strong, hoping against hope for relief to come and find him if he cannot search for it himself.

When it does - _oh_ , when it _does_ \- Wooyoung believes to have succumbed to his delusions, to have been deceived by dreams and imagination of a time he so dearly wishes to have back within his grasp. But before Wooyoung knows it, San is within his arms, lyre strapped to his back and hair wet against his forehead from all the heat - for Hwadestown is hot, an uncomfortable imitation of summer in its humidity, and no such pleasure as a light breeze to ease the toll it takes on your body. Though San, his beloved San, is here, and he is as real as the song in Wooyoung’s ears when San speaks his name for the first time in many, many excruciating days.

 _It is you_ , Wooyoung says, voice low and rough from disuse.

 _It is me_ , San replies, dimpled smile breaking through the haziness of Wooyoung’s misery. _Wooyoung_.

 _San_.

His embrace feels like coming home again.

San trembles through his apologies, swears up and down and up again that he shall never leave Wooyoung alone, that he shall listen when his name is being called before...

Before the unspeakable happens for the second time.

Though as joy warms Wooyoung’s heart, has his cheeks bloom in the color of red carnations, his eyes meet San’s determination to return home with him, and despair floods all color with piceous darkness.

For the papers have been signed, and Wooyoung must not leave.

Wooyoung has always seen their descent into hell as unavoidable, yet he would have never thought to be the cause.

And the Fates start to sing, a ringing sound, enhancing ever-growing forlornness of two lovers in their bittersweet reunion, and Wooyoung is torn from San’s hold too soon, far too soon, and he cries until his voice strains - though in the end, there is no use in his struggle, even as San hears the calls of his names and listens, even as he listens and reaches out.

It is too late for them. The man he loves is gone.

San feels powerless as his heart is being cut out of his chest, his screams of endless agony unnoticed by those around him - he feels, so strongly, the poison of the factory’s fumes, his lungs uncaring that he is already an organ short. He is all alone again, though free, free he remains, and yet, is there truly freedom when his lover is being locked away and suffocated, the key thrown to the side so that San cannot even attempt to rediscover it?

And how, how is San supposed to find the courage within him, the very same drive that brought him here, as he had hopes too high for someone with might so little compared to the cruel king of the underworld. The world does not change, does not leap at the chance of San trying to upend it for his light and love alone.

The world does not change, why the struggle, why the strain, to defeat the undefeatable? In this city and beyond, you shall receive no sympathy, and San has always been the fool to hope against hope.

 _If it is true, what they say_ , San thinks, as he hears the echoes of three angelic voices urging him to abandon ship and save himself, before he, too, shall get his life sucked out of him from the strict foreman roaming about, _I will be on my way._

And thus, San sets a foot right in front of the other, and he goes, lyre in hand as he sings a song of his pain, sings his lament at the top his lungs even as they start to give out.

Around Gods, miracles do tend to happen.

A half god might just make do, if the Gods themselves shall not grant them.

For you see, the workers hear him; they hear the cries and the pleas of a broken lover and his lyre, and they stop their working for but a second and—they look up. They raise their heads higher than they have in all of those years of damned punishment, they reclaim the use of their backbone as they stand. And they listen.

Hongjoong is far from young. Far from inexperienced in anything.

And yet, to this day, he has never seen a single soul stir a lifeless pot to a boiling temperature like San has, unbeknownst to the effects of his singing on the undead of the underworld.

They see in him what Seonghwa has prevented them to see - a way out of their confines and their contracts, a rebel to question what is told to him by those who may be immortal, who may be divine, yet are no better than the rest of them. Always so solemn to swear, to deal the cards of fate, but they never play fair, do they?

San sees this. San sings this. Calls the will back into all of their minds, reminds them of their unity, that they are not alone in this city robbing them of breath and life and opportunity. It is not Seonghwa who has infinite control over them, not if they band together, not if they realize their power as a people and stand up for themselves.

So, San stops at the greatest wall he has ever looked up and down, and he pushes against it. The workers join him, push against their own flesh and blood of mortar and stone, and though their strength is not nearly enough to topple the work of a thousand lifetimes, it suffices to send a message, to send a sign, to the only God who may be willing to listen to them.

San’s song sobers up the hazy daze of a dissatisfied king, Yeosang on his heels as he remembers the poet’s blessings from up above - this is different, yet all the same, a single voice to move everyone’s hearts, and Yeosang remembers the spark he had turned away from, to spare himself the pain of witnessing its death.

The God is so affected by the lover’s rebellion, he seeks out his husband before he can quell these beginnings of an uprising.

It shall be the first and last time Yeosang steps into Seonghwa’s office out of his own volition, and he scratches his nail at dead skin upon his entrance. The king of the underworld does not regard him, only growls in acknowledgement of his presence, and Yeosang senses that he is already perfectly aware of the situation unfolding in his city of steel.

Clenched fists are so telling.

Remember this.

Through the years, ruthlessness has attached itself to Yeosang’s back like an unwanted gift given to him by his husband - one does not live in the underworld for so long and not receive a thick, long coat of armor, built from spite and anger and the duties of the handler of death. These days, Yeosang does not lash out at anyone but his husband, should he even come upon him, though he so rarely does.

Tonight, however, he shall be civil, he shall be straightforward, because his mind is, and the moment opportune.

_What are you afraid of?_

Seonghwa will claim not to be afraid of anything - he is superior in every way, he has power over them all, except for this one minuscule ant he has yet to crush beneath his heel. A lovesick buffoon who shall have no place there in Hwadestown or elsewhere, and therefore, he must be eliminated from the equation before permanent harm can be done to Seonghwa’s life’s work.

 _He is just a man in love, Seonghwa_ , Yeosang gives the bold reply, a sore memory spilling from his lips as he stares, fearless, at the challenge that is his husband, _I recall having fallen in love just as deeply once, as I am sure you do, as well._

The thin lines of Seonghwa’s frown have no effect on Yeosang anymore, no fright or cold is induced into his bones at the sight, try as Seonghwa might. _What should I care for the love of another man? His precious boy means nothing to me._

And this, before anything else, is the core of his drive to collect soul after soul - he does not do it out of need for workers in his factories, not out of desire to build his city a wall greater than the Olympus, no; Seonghwa collects for the sole sake of collecting - he collects, only because he can.

 _And yet_ , Yeosang speaks, _he means everything to him._ In a fit of tenderness, half out of his mind, Yeosang’s pleas find methods of affection ideal weapons to make Seonghwa bend his knee for once, as Yeosang places his hands on either side of Seonghwa’s face in a manner so tender, so gentle, it is uncalled for after centuries of cold, biting distance. _You must let him go. Please, husband. My light, my darkness. Have pity._

Gods as old as Seonghwa do not take it lightly when they feel threatened, when they feel their authority wither just so slightly, and they throw fit after fit when they do not find another solution. Thus, Seonghwa disregards his husband’s touch, he disregards the warmth in his chest and swallows down the fault of vulnerability, for a God is never vulnerable, he shall never yield to a child’s play of devotion. _I have no place for your pity, husband. For as long as I am king, I shall not hand a fool the tools of destruction to weaken my kingdom._

Though destruction is not what the poor man is seeking to bring to Hwadestown. _Love is all he seeks to take with him. His boy is the key._

The husbands, though close in every sense except the emotional, are engaging in a battle between the Gods, eyes of death against the eyes of sun, and Yeosang shall not back down until he knows he has won. Victory is on his side, as the sharp jaw of his king moves out of his vision, out of his office, and the boisterous voice calls the attention of a songwriter, waving papers around which attract the other victim of his dangerous game.

And so, the lovers stand together, hands outstretched yet untouching, as death himself stares them down with ice in his glare, and workers gather around them, their heads low, low, low in fear of their foreman. They are a spectacle - for they receive a second chance at a verdict, something unseen in a place where you sign away your life and death with but one signature.

Hongjoong, too, stands as witness to the strange trial of his young prodigy and his muse; however, so do the Fates. And wherever they go, unrest is quick to follow.

No image is as clear in his head, even centuries later, as Seonghwa raising his hand, those long, nimble fingers capable of much devastation, to San’s face, gripping his chin with a force only an angry God could procure - with the force only a desperate half God could withstand.

Gods of death have a particular, a peculiar sort of humor, you see - they curl their lips not in appreciation of a good joke, no; they relish in the misfortune of the mundane, in stepping on a suffering soul when it is already at its lowest. They laugh when confronted with the image of their past, spit in its face to ignore their reflection in the mirror, and thus, poor San does not stand a chance against the devil, for he does not take him seriously. But San knows better. San knows his song has affected the guardian of their seasons - pity, is what he showed him, bringing him before his husband now to fight for his love even as it dies out.

Death is so present around them. Everything revolves around it, or so it seems. San is too blind to see it, for only a fool dreams of a better world even way down, in Hwadestown, where the world has lost all of its glory in favor of sticky heat and stuffy air.

 _You would fare well to turn from this, young man_ , is Seonghwa’s stale advice, as he bares his teeth and snarls as though he himself were the bloodhound in front of his city’s gates. _I was once young like you, sang a song of love like you._

Seonghwa’s laughter comes as a surprise, though it shakes San to the core, rattles his flesh and bone until his knees almost buckle under the weight of Seonghwa’s implications and San’s own need to fight back.

Air may not be a limited good, may not be so luxurious as the fruit or the flowers from up above, yet it is as though the workers hold their breath to savor it, to hold it precious for as long as they can while Seonghwa robs them of just one more quality of life.

Wooyoung weeps, watching the torture unfold before his eyes without the means to intervene. The friendlier ghost of the underground appears beside him, gathers him up from the dirty ground to whisper, _your tears shall do him no good. If he is anything like my husband when he was young, when he was in love, he shall not leave you behind. Have faith that he will fight for you._

Tears are not quelled quite so easily, but Wooyoung is in awe, Wooyoung feels blessed by a God with those words - he raises his head, and he calls San’s name, once, twice, cries until his voice breaks. San hears him, frees himself from the small imitation of the prison that is Hwadestown, and takes his lyre into his hands. Seonghwa laughs, amused _. Never forget your place in this world, young man. Never forget that a king stands before you, and that you are powerless against me._

But San shakes his head in defiance, and now he is the one who steps close and even closer than anyone has ever dared to approach Seonghwa, and he speaks, _If you truly knew love, like me, then you know I am more powerful than you could ever be. Just because_ , he points a finger towards Wooyoung, who joins San by his side with eyes of the strongest will, _just because he loves me, I am like a God. I am your equal. And I shall move the earth for him, if it must be, so you had better not be in my way._

The malicious grin vanishes from Seonghwa’s face.

He tips his chin—exchanges an unreadable look with his husband, stood behind the two lovers as though to protect them from Seonghwa’s city, and growls.

 _What a fool you are_ , Seonghwa laughs once more, and it is a sound so horrendous, Wooyoung grips San’s hand to steady himself in preparation of the blow he expects to land. A final touch before their mortal lives shall find their end.

The abilities of a God surpass those of a songwriter who makes flowers grow from the beauty of his voice alone, and yet, having Wooyoung’s hand in his, his heart connected to his bare soul, San feels equipped to face the wrath of the king of the underworld.

Though, it does not come.

 _Know this one thing, poet_ , Seonghwa meets his eyes. The world holds its breath, once more. _No man is worth the trouble. No man is worth eternity. Take it from a man, old and experienced, and his hateful husband, who shall tell you the same._

Hongjoong is the only one to truly see Yeosang’s tears, to not turn away as soon as they fall over a face pale from lack of sun. His own husband pretends ignorance, even as Yeosang bites back just as hard, _All I see in front of me is a man consumed by his own hatred. Not the man I married._

Seonghwa is close to lashing out, obvious as it is. He does not, clenches his fist and bites his way through a proposal to the songwriter awaiting his fate.

 _Sing a song for me, then_ , Seonghwa demands. _Awaken the man I once was, according to my dearest, and I shall reconsider the papers._

_Sing. For an old man._

It is like the curtain falls from San’s eyes, then.

The request is strange to him, and yet it is familiar, as though it was meant to be so from the beginning. He remembers his melody, unfinished, dangerous, he remembers what he pushed into the back of his mind to follow his love into the depths of hell, and he knows.

All of a sudden, San knows how to finish his song.

It has never occurred to him that, perhaps, the core to bringing spring and autumn back, is to tell of the cause that made them vanish from existence in the first place.

And so, San sings, unstoppable. He plays his lyre, and he loathes to let go of Wooyoung’s hand as he does so, but if it is the sacrifice he will have to make to bring them home, so be it.

Once, Gods were young, too. Foolish, vain, vulnerable. In love, broken, before bitterness of eternal life made them bored, uninterested entities, angered beyond belief, in pursuit of other pleasures that helped excitement enter their lives again.

Seonghwa was one of them.

And so, so long ago, before the poet could ever even dream of composing, Seonghwa saw a man so beautiful, kissed by the sun and beloved by his people, in a garden with plants so green and fruit so lush, only a divine hand could procure treasures so precious.

His heart was weak, his heart was warm, and he was just like San; a man, in love at first sight.

And Seonghwa sang a song to attract the man’s attention—it is the same song San now sings, as he recounts their own story to the Gods’ utter astonishment, even as Seonghwa asks just where has gotten the melody from, shocked by the unexpected reminder of his origins, and Yeosang takes his hand in an attempt at acquiescence, urges him to let the boy finish.

The gorgeous man, son of the Goddess of nature, of agriculture, of everything that bloomed and everything that lived, fell in love just as quickly, just as deeply, and he felt as though he could give up everything to be with Seonghwa.

And Seonghwa knew he had to take him home with him.

But words would not be able to describe just how much love the king of the underworld felt in the very moment that Yeosang agreed to be his husband, to become a king himself, down below in the darkness where the sun never shone, not on anyone.

And Yeosang loved him in return, with a fiery passion he had only ever shown to the flowers in the fields he tended to - which would not grow, which would yield to the ice and the snow that took Yeosang’s place on the surface.

A mother’s wrath, divine punishment, though not for marrying the man he loved - no, for abandoning the people he pretended to care oh-so-much for, to whom he gave the ability to live life to the fullest. Robbed of another choice, Seonghwa had agreed to six months of each year that his husband would be gone, tend to his upperworldly duties before returning to him in winter times. It was an arrangement less than ideal for two men undyingly in love, but it was to be carried out for centuries on end, and the very reason two Gods, two husbands, two souls who swore love for the whole of immortality eventually grew apart.

And try as Seonghwa might, attempts to keep his husband by his side became efforts greatly out of their bounds soon, so soon, for to keep him meant to keep him and to keep him until keeping meant putting shackles on him, putting him into a gilded cage, under lock and key so that he will not leave, even if he makes the appeal to Olympus.

Resentment grows and grows thicker in smaller spaces, and thus, Yeosang sought to bring the pleasures with him, false ones at that, imitations of those positive feelings he once knew, instead of finding it within Seonghwa’s hold.

And Seonghwa built and built and built until workers were needed to build the wall around his heart, to build the neon signs and the power cord and the power lines, until the idea of maintaining love so dear to his heart became an afterthought in the pursuit of superiority.

Yes; Seonghwa may have everything, these days. He may have the most precious stones, the most efficient machinery, the most successful factories. Everything a God could wish for.

Except for the one thing he yearns for the most.

His husband’s love, infinite, as it has once been promised.

The workers chant the melody of his first love confession, honest and proud as if they themselves had been present back then, and Seonghwa is reminded of the youth still left in his bones. He looks to his side, no longer blind to the tears on his love’s face, so he wipes them away before he falls to his knees, begging for forgiveness.

In his attempts not to lose what he loved, Seonghwa had given Yeosang present after present, one less meaningful than the other. But underneath the heavy coat Yeosang wears, beneath the fabric of his parted skirt, Seonghwa discovers a garter, adorned with diamonds sparkling in the floodlights - perhaps the first gift Seonghwa had presented him that held true importance to him.

For it had been made with the first diamonds ever mined under their joint reign.

Why Yeosang chose to wear this token of a time long past them, Seonghwa cannot possibly fathom, and yet he welcomes it, as it makes him feel as though he is not alone in his sudden swell of nostalgia. He kisses his knee, hands stroking across his thighs in a manner so sensual and intimate, the workers do not dare to open their eyes to this unprecedented display of affection.

They dance to San’s song of love, sing along to the melody they once shared so openly, eons ago.

And even as the strings of the lyre still and San’s voice quiets to a hum, the Gods hold each other for moments of infinite value, rediscovering comfort where they had forgotten to look for it.

The lovers fall into each other’s embrace as well, overjoyed at the reaction of the God that keeps them captive.

Promises are exchanged, promises to stay by each other’s side for this life and the next, and even the one after that, no weddings bands needed to prove their love and devotion to one another. They let hope dwell in their chest, replacing doubt and worry and misery, as they hold and kiss and take what is given, uncaring for who is watching them.

Sweet as Hongjoong remembers it, the reunion of the lovers, what comes next is the part of the story that dares to call itself the ending.

A silent word is shared between the husbands, one of two hearts finally beating in sync again after centuries of disharmony. There is a plea, a hope, in Yeosang’s eyes as he catches Seonghwa before he turns away from him to resume the trial, and Seonghwa tips his head in acknowledgment as his hands fall from Yeosang’s grasp.

And so, the poor boy asks the king, _Can we go?_

Minutes before, Seonghwa would have sent him on his way, all alone, kept his precious little boy with him for eternity until he would be no more than a dying songbird, robbed of his voice and song.

But how can he punish a man who reminded him of the feeling of youth, of the price he had to pay for his own love story to happen, and how he cannot let factories replace the emptiness within his heart that a broken lover has left with him? That the man he wishes to spoil with all the riches in the world does not care for them if he does not receive his husband’s heart’s appreciation, too?

A simple poet has upended Seonghwa’s entire world with but one song, and now Seonghwa must punish him for it.

But he cannot.

For if he does, his city will start an uprising and make a martyr of a heartbroken man, and although loathe to admit it, Seonghwa does not rise to tempt the abundance of workers he has collected, lifeless as they are, for they all hold nothing but hatred to their foreman. If one song can inspire Seonghwa, a whole damn concert may just set the underworld as he knows it on fire.

 _I do not know_ , Seonghwa answers him, and the Fates start to chortle with laughter, gurgling more than anything, and no one pays them any mind but the king, who wishes them gone but has no more power over them than the poor man they have plagued from his birth till his death.

 _Think quick, king of the underworld_ , says the one, the smallest, but loudest, the one with flames in his hair.

 _You do not want to be caught without a spine_ , says the other, the nicest, the tallest, the one whose features can be most deceiving with their tenderness.

 _Nor would you want to be caught without a heart,_ says the last, the sharpest, the wildest, the one who is unhinged beyond repair yet the wisest out of all three.

They utter warning after warning, baring their teeth in wicked grins.

Hongjoong has encountered the Fates far too often in his lifetime. They only seek destruction of humankind, of divinities, for the sole pleasure of watching the world fall off its axis momentarily. They shall cut threads all day, yet what they enjoy most is pushing the ants into a corner until they are nothing but a chaotic cluster easily eliminated. They do not stop before Gods, do not quiver in fear - for even Olympus shall meet its end at the hands of the Fates one day.

Seonghwa is not used to intervention of creatures as distasteful as them, is not used to anyone speaking over and above him other than his husband and a foolish rebel with a love song. However, he must admit defeat, just this once - not outright, remembering his spine and its use, remembering that his workers are growing one with every second that he takes to make his decision.

Slow steps bring the God before his inferior, and the proposal on his tongue burns, acidic in nature, but warm for the reaction it invokes.

Seonghwa shall let them go, he decides - though it shall not be so easy, love is never easy, and San must prove that Wooyoung is worth being stolen right back.

_Take him, take him with you, let him follow you out of the city’s bounds and into the darkness. Have him right behind you, lead him back the way you came and he shall be yours. But you must never turn and look behind, you must not see if he does follow you, not until you have reached the surface._

_Trust in the darkness or lose your precious boy to it, foolish man._

_Let us see how strong you are without your love lending you wings._

A collective gasp goes through the crowd, Hongjoong leading the group’s effort, and they see the way the lovers hesitate for but a second before their resolve wins over fright, and they agree upon the offer given, swallow at the sight of the dangerous smirk on Seonghwa’s face.

They have faith in one another.

They are aware that their future lies on San’s shoulders alone - that this is their second and only chance at reclaiming what is theirs and theirs alone, nothing to be shared, no contract to restrict them.

San has followed Wooyoung into the depths of hell, to the end of the earth and the end of time, to where life is not a word but a joke to the Gods, and now, Wooyoung must do the same and follow him, prove his devotion and his determination, and San—San must trust, first and foremost. He must trust that Wooyoung shall do so.

Hongjoong sends the lovers off, with sound advice and his blessings, though they do not mean much in the presence of a many self-inflicted curses. _Do not listen to the voices inside your head, dear boy. Sing your own song to overshadow them. And may luck be on your side that your journey will be quick and you will see spring on the other end of the tunnel._

The king and his husband watch the exchange.

They watch, with hands interlocked, as the two young lovers hold each other desperately, clinging onto clothes worn and torn and wet from sweat and tears, and they converse amongst themselves as the workers disperse around them.

_You let them go._

_I let them try._

Yeosang holds on tighter, tighter than he has in so long, and he finds that he missed it - Seonghwa’s hand wrapped around his, the warmth, the life of him, the promise, as small as it may seem now. Their time is limited, though. Soon, the train will come, and it will take Yeosang home and away. He dreads those six months of separation now, for they are responsible for the sour turns of their relationship - Yeosang does not wish for a repetition of his sorrows.

Neither does Seonghwa.

_We shall try again. Next autumn._

And Yeosang weeps, but not out of sadness. It is joy that grips him, blooms in his chest, and he asks, _You will wait for me?_

Seonghwa raises his hand to his face, places a kiss on his knuckles to seal the promise. _For another eternity, my love, if I have to._

And here it is, that the lovers’ paths divert.

For San leads them through the darkness, with a new song and his lyre, and he dares not to turn his head around, he dares not to give voice to distrust, there is none, there is none, there is—

A man, and another, and yet a third, strangers not unfamiliar to him.

The voices he must listen to.

He sings louder, louder, louder, but they laugh at him, they single in on him and whisper, directly into his ears—

 _Where is he?_ Asks the first. San almost believes his confusion.

 _Right behind me_ , San says, _where Seonghwa promised me he would be._

 _Is he, though?_ Asks the second, grinning from ear-to-ear with all the bad blood in his bones.

 _How can you be sure?_ Asks the third, going so far as to trace a finger along San’s jaw to make him shiver.

Wooyoung is well-acquainted with the voices, yet he is powerless against them, he is but a weak shout against their mighty whisperings, but he calls San’s name to remind him of his presence, that he is here, as promised, that he is following him, as promised.

But San does not hear, for the doubt comes into the song that he sings, fingers rushing over the strings of his lyre to make the music loud, make it lose its harmony - hide Wooyoung beneath the notes, reminiscent of past mistakes, until Wooyoung himself becomes part of the darkness again.

And is that not their greatest flaw, in the end? Constantly trying to rectify their mistakes, instead of learning from them?

Why would Wooyoung follow San, after all that he has done wrong to him? Why follow him, for the second time, only to find himself without shelter, without food, sooner or later? San has nothing to offer him.

 _No, no, no_ , San shouts, walking faster still, _It is for love that he chooses to come with me. And I will not give in, I will not abandon him again._

And yet.

San is shaking.

The Fates dance to his song, in mockery, imitating his cries.

San almost believes they have come to torment him per Seonghwa’s request - taunting him, laughing at him, at his naivety and his foolishness.

Who is San to believe he could go against Seonghwa? What power does he hold against the God of the underworld with his hounds howling at his feet, with the army of workers that barely raised their heads at San’s songs? How could San outsmart a God, start a rebellion against him?

Seonghwa would never let Wooyoung go with him.

Most Gods show no mercy to mortals; why would the collector of souls release one of his trophies to a simple, underwhelming poet such as San, who gave him a song to restore the seasons Seonghwa himself had reasoned to destroy?

This is a trick.

San cannot stay blind to the way the world truly is, not anymore - it deceives you, it lulls you to sleep with a false sense of security, while it steals your breath, your soul, your life from you. Just as Seonghwa stole Wooyoung from him. Still keeps him locked away, way down in Hwadestown, way down under the ground.

San has no doubt anymore.

The further he goes, the more secure he becomes - no love is trailing behind him.

And if he turns around, now, if he turns around, he shall find—

A gasp.

A whimper.

A murmur of, _It is you._

And the devastated reply of, _It is me. It is me._

They stare at one another, as the Fates rush around Wooyoung, pulling at his arms.

 _San_. He cries, before he is gone.

San hears him.

_Wooyoung_.

San falls to his knees, unseeing. Lost.

Alone.

_All right._

Hongjoong breathes out.

The story is not an easy one to tell. It never was, and it shall never be.

History, as life, repeats itself in an endless cycle of tragedy.

And yet, Hongjoong will choose to tell this story, again and again, until perhaps, the ending will be different. Until the boy who walks the earth in solitude, without his love or his song, shall find his way into the underground again, asking for another chance. Until the youngest worker amongst Seonghwa’s flock shall find his voice again, be louder than he has ever been, in defiance, in rebellion, and the ghosts around him shall follow his calls, as they once did with a man they now hardly remember.

All hope is not lost.

And thus, Yeosang shall raise his cup for San, and Hongjoong shall raise his as well.

They shall honor him with their toast, shall honor the attempt, though unsuccessful, he has made to bring his love back with him. They greet spring and autumn, for they are his deeds, his legacy, the gift he has given to a world that made him lose it all.

And they will sing his song.

Until one day, San may sing it again himself. With a lover’s kiss that lends him wings, and another try to have you see the world how it could be, in spite of the way that it is.

Hongjoong will ask you to dare and see it.

**Author's Note:**

> haha
> 
> how did you like my hwadestown pun : D can you guess who the fates are : D
> 
> tell me how much you suffered in the comments please!!!!!!!! (please) (Please)  
> PERFECT WONDERFUL AMAZING MIND-BLOWING[SEONGSANG KINGS OF THE UNDERWORLD BY @hizuillu](https://twitter.com/hizuillu/status/1320456175469682688?s=20)
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/sangiebyheart) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/sangiebyheart)


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